


Reed's Departure

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [9]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Historical, Lams - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 06:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15067430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Some weeks after the battle of Germantown, General Washington's aides-de-camp bid one of their member farewell while Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens wish for more time alone.





	Reed's Departure

**Author's Note:**

> This story cannot really be read as a stand alone, too much a part of the series.

Pain stabs through John Laurens before he even opens his eyes making him grit his teeth. He breathes in slowly and out once, trying to manage the fire coursing through his shoulder. Then he opens his eyes to the white ceiling. The light appears dim but with shadows enough coming through the windows to indicate the sun rising. Laurens breathes in once more, thinks about wide fields in South Carolina, the soft whinny of a horse, red hair paired with blue eyes.

Laurens sits up slowly, his left hand holding firm against the bandage over his right shoulder as he does. It has been near two weeks since their engagement with the British at Germantown, not far from the house they reside in now, belonging to Mr. Peter Wentz. Laurens sustained an injury in the battle, more than one really, the most pressing being a gunshot to his shoulder. Though the wound heals, it still pains Laurens each morning most and aches throughout the day.

Laurens glances around the aide-de-camp bedroom, the seven of them all crammed into the attic what with a bedroom reserved for General Washington and the other for the family still in residence. It is fortunate they were billeted in the house at all, but Mr. Wentz is a more accommodating man than may even be expected of the best hosts; especially as this marks their second stay in his home after only a few weeks respite for the household. 

Laurens tries to roll his shoulder around gently. It stabs as he does so, but he grits his teeth and finishes one rotation. He cannot let his arm remain fully idle or it should heal with less range of motion; he has seen it on men of his father’s plantation before. Laurens stands quietly from his cot, no other man sharing with him due to Laurens’ injury. He sees the other beds all occupied save one. He frowns, checking heads around the slopped room, and determines it is Robert Hanson Harrison and Joseph Reed who are missing.

“Early to rise,” Laurens mutters to himself.

He picks his way around the cots to the trunks against the further wall and under the window. He looks outside and sees some servants at work, carrying items Laurens cannot identify, a man who may be Caleb Gibbs, Captain of the lifeguard, mounting a horse. Laurens turns from the window and twists his neck down to look at his shoulder. He pulls his shirt back to examine his bandage. A faint stain of red mars the white cloth but none appears to be on his shirt, so it must be old. Still, he should change the bandage. Laurens uses his good arm to carefully pull his shirt off over his head, hissing only once when it catches over his other arm. Yet he manages to get it off without wrenching his arm in any wrong way as he did the first few days of his injury and his, he must admit, difficult behavior as a patient. Laurens crouches low and opens his trunk, searching for the bandages the regiment surgeon left him after Laurens cajoled him into allowing Laurens back to work instead of wallowing in the sick tent. Finding the new bandages, Laurens sits down on the lid of the trunk then pulls at the tied off cloth across the front of his chest with both hands, low enough not to disturb his shoulder yet. 

He fumbles for a minute, trying to stay quiet with all the heavy breath of sleep still around him. “Blast...” 

He finally manages to free the ends so he may pull at the folds and wraps around him. It is only painful when he reaches the cloth stuck fast to the wound itself. He peels the stained cloth carefully, grimacing with eyes on the wound. 

Then another pair of hands slide over his and pull off the bandage. “Don’t be an imbecile.”

Laurens looks up at Alexander Hamilton standing in front of him. Laurens breath catches for a moment with the surprise of Hamilton before him and the sting of his wound.

Then he smiles. “Am I?”

Hamilton looks down at him, eyebrow quirked under clearly hastily pulled back red hair. “How might you expect to change a bandage on yourself?”

“My hands work.”

“But do your arms?”

“It is only my shoulder.”

Hamilton balls up the bloody bandage and puts it aside. “Your arm is attached to your shoulder. Had you not noticed?”

Laurens sits up straighter and watches Hamilton as he walks around Laurens to pick up the pitcher of water and basin in the window. 

“I certainly have,” Laurens answers. “Waking is enough to do that.”

Hamilton puts the pitcher and basin down on the floor near Laurens’ feet. He frowns as he pours some water in the basin, moving the washing cloth out of the way. “It still causes you pain?”

Laurens presses his lips together and glances away. He has thus far been fairly successful in downplaying the continued irritation of his injury. “It was a bullet wound.”

Hamilton dips the cloth in the water then presses it against Laurens’ wound so Laurens cannot stop himself jerking and groaning in the back of his throat. Hamilton makes a face but says nothing. He shifts from his crouch to his knees then presses one hand to Laurens’ chest to steady himself as he wipes at the dried blood and more pus around the wound. Laurens stares at the side of Hamilton’s face as he dabs slowly, the fingers of his other hand relaxing against Laurens’ skin and pressing right over the rising beat of Laurens’ heart.

Hamilton’s eyes tick up to look at Laurens once making Laurens breathe in deeply. Then Hamilton pulls back, putting the cloth on the edge of the basin. “There.”

“I could have managed the task.”

“Could you?”

Laurens presses his lips together again. He feels he has been arguing with all around him since the first moment of his injury. “I am still able –”

“No one believes you unable, Laurens, merely injured.”

“And?” Laurens says. 

“And,” Hamilton says, pushing some of Laurens’ thus far untended to hair away from his face, “simply allow me.”

Laurens stares at Hamilton. They have an understanding of sorts now, a step past friendship, and a step beyond that. He has held Hamilton in his arms, kissed his lips, but Laurens wants to do more, more than a wounded shoulder should allow. 

“Yes,” Laurens replies in the face of Hamilton’s assistance.

Hamilton nods. “Then sit still.”

Hamilton’s eyes on Laurens, his smile, his hand on Laurens skin, even in this context feels like precious gifts Laurens does not deserve.

“Now,” Hamilton says, picking up a rolled bandage. “I believe I recall the wrapping and do tell me if it becomes too tight.”

“I should think tighter to be better.”

Hamilton’s lips quirks. “But you must still use your arm.”

Hamilton puts one end of the roll against the middle of Laurens’ chest so Laurens may hold it in place. Then Hamilton wraps the bandage around diagonally, tight over the wound and toward Laurens’ back. He leans close as he moves and Laurens turns his head with Hamilton, the skin of Hamilton’s neck near his lips, a line of muscle he wants to follow with kisses. Hamilton leans back again, wrapping back around Laurens’ chest and over his hand so Laurens must pull it free. Hamilton’s lips spread into a small smile. 

“Here, here.” Laurens looks up at Richard Kidder Meade now walking over to them, yawning. He walks around the trunk to Laurens’ other side. “You’ll take forever if you baby him so, Ham.”

Laurens scoffs with indignation just as Hamilton laughs, both of them pulling slightly back from each other at Meade’s intrusion. Hamilton hands the roll to Meade to wrap around Laurens again, the two of them finishing the bandage around Laurens far quicker and much more to his embarrassment at needing so much help.

“I do not need two nursemaids,” Laurens huffs, trying to swat at Meade now that Hamilton ties off the ends over Laurens’ chest.

Meade slides around Laurens’ side, leaning over him. “I say next time we leave him on the field to bleed a while longer. Perhaps Laurens may say ‘thank you’ more then?”

“Meade...” Hamilton chides, his fingers still on the bandage, his nail quickly scratching Laurens’ flesh likely as a warning to behave.

Laurens glances quickly at Hamilton then back to Meade with a sigh. “Thank you, Kidder.”

Meade smiles slow and wide. “You are quite welcome, Laurens.” Meade then stands up straighter and turns around back toward the window. “What is the hour?”

“After sunrise,” Hamilton says.

Meade huffs. “I have seen this. And where are Reed and Harrison?”

“They were gone when I awoke,” Laurens says as he reaches for his shirt which he left carelessly on the floor.

Hamilton grasps it first, handing it to Laurens, his eyes up higher on Laurens’ hair. He nods then stands up again, joining Meade behind Laurens’ trunk seat. “Likely they two are hard at work so as to leave more of the evening work for us in turn.”

Meade chuckles. “Wise.”

Laurens struggles into his shirt, oddly grateful at Hamilton leaving this action to him. He winces several times but manages the garment, hair caught under the collar, then he stands up. He turns to the two men at the window and clears his throat. They both look back at him, near matching smiles. “And who should wake our remaining compatriots?”

“I am awake,” they hear from John Fitzgerald. Laurens turns around and sees Fitzgerald open his eyes though he does not rise. “Meade shakes the cot so when he stands.”

Meade opens his mouth in mock offense but does not retort. The three standing men wait a moment but Tench Tilghman, the last aide remaining, says nothing.

“How he sleeps through your racket,” Fitzgerald says as he rolls over to his back, “I cannot say.”

Meade laughs low in the back of his throat then skirts around Fitzgerald’s cot to clearly accost Tilghman into waking.

Laurens glances to Hamilton standing next to him. Hamilton’s eyes tick to him.

“I forgot to say,” Hamilton starts, then smiles. “Good morning.”

Tilghman groans suddenly followed by the laughter of Meade and some rebuke from Fitzgerald that sounds completely false.

Laurens smiles back at Hamilton, the sun in Hamilton’s hair, and thinks his shoulder may hurt less beside Hamilton. “Good morning.”

 

Once full attired, with some needed assistance provided by Meade in getting his coat on, Laurens follows Fitzgerald and Hamilton down from their attic conclave to the ground floor of the house. The time should be past six now but most of the house appears to be awake and at work; their hours do start as early as the sun most days. Laurens enters the aide–de–camp office, which usually serves as the house’s dining room; in fact, at present, a table lies set for breakfast. His Excellency, Harrison, Reed, and Meade all sit at table, mugs with steam issuing from the top and, the aides at least, with papers before them. General Washington glances up at Laurens as he walks in, Hamilton a step behind them. He smiles and nods a good morning as the pair of them sit beside each other at the long table.

“Tea or coffee?” Hamilton asks Laurens.

“Whichever is closer to my hand.”

Hamilton brushes the back of his hand against Laurens’ as he reaches for a jug of coffee, pouring some for each of them into waiting mugs.

“Sir, some good reports from the north,” Tilghman says as he walks into the room with Gibbs and Fitzgerald behind him.

Tilghman strides to the head of the table, handing General Washington a letter. The aides all watch the General as he reads, a small smile growing on his face. His eyes tick up to them then he folds the letter back up and hands it to Tilghman once more. “General Burgoyne has surrendered to General Gates at Saratoga.”

The men around the table all make noises of pleasure – Harrison taking the letter from Tilghman as he beams, Meade knocking his knuckles on the table, Fitzgerald and Gibbs both saying ‘here, here’ while Reed nods, making a lone toast with his teacup.

“Yes,” General Washington says, “Excellent news but we still have the bombardment of Fort Mifflin and our loss at Germantown to account for, so we may not celebrate as we may wish yet.”

The aides echo, ‘yes, sir’ and ‘yes, Your Excellency’ around the table. Harrison gives the General a look, which Laurens catches the General sighing at, but there is no more comment about their victories or defeats. Every man there knows the struggle of their fight and the losses they have suffered. Laurens feels his shoulder ache.

“The fort is under attack even now,” Hamilton says quietly to Laurens.

“I except we shall receive more word today,” Laurens replies.

“But if the fort does not hold…”

“How long can it?”

“Wait until we hear word,” Fitzgerald says across from them. “We must not speculate.”

Hamilton flashes him a look. “I would prefer to be prepared for our next steps, would you not?”

“I shall when I see the day’s letters.” Fitzgerald gives a calm look back. “We must work with the most recent information we can.”

“And we have yet the issue of our losses at Germantown before us,” Laurens says, some shame and anger still beneath his words.

Hamilton’s eyes tick to him. “Of men and supplies, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Ammunition most of all,” Tilghman says beside Laurens, cutting up some eggs on his plate. “I have a hope of some from Allentown that may relieve us.”

“And to relieve Fort Mifflin?” Hamilton asks.

Tilghman glances at Hamilton but offers no answer. Laurens presses his wrist against Hamilton’s. Hamilton gives him a grim look. They can only hope for better word today and the movement of supplies to continue as they need, as they always need.

Breakfast does not last long, no more than an hour. Fitzgerald and Gibbs talking of Fort Montgomery’s loss, and the precarious nature of forts in battle, Tilghman telling Laurens of news from home, while Harrison talks with Meade, Hamilton and General Washington at the other end of the table about a Tory spy caught in New Jersey and the problems of spies from within their own country. It is not until General Washington pushes his plate back from himself and taps his mug on the table for attention that Laurens notices how quiet Reed has been the entirety of the meal.

“Gentlemen, I know you all have your tasks of the day. Any reports of Fort Mifflin I ask you to bring to me. Tilghman, a report on the ammunition status will be most helpful.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“And for dinner this evening, I expect full attendance. It shall only be the family as we are to give Reed a sendoff. Good morning, Gentlemen.” Then General Washington stands and leaves the table, Gibbs jumping up after a last gulp of his coffee to join the General.

As Gibbs disappears out the door with General Washington to the yellow parlor across the hall, the remaining heads at the table all turn to Reed. Reed clears his throat delicately then looks up at Harrison. 

Harrison raises his eyebrows. “Congress?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?” 

Reed picks up his coffee. “I do not know of my return.”

Harrison nods. “You are a volunteer and it was good of you to return as you did after your service last year.”

Laurens thinks he sees Reed color some high on his cheeks.

“You are leaving us?” Meade asks for the rest of the table.

Reed turns his head slowly. “Yes, as you may know, I do represent Pennsylvania in the Congress and, as we are here, I have more positions in Pennsylvania which I need to report on and then Congress to return to in lieu of my service here.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. He did recall something of Reed serving with Congress but, in truth, he does not keep a complete list of all those current members in his head. With Reed here at headquarters of their army he had not thought that position one Reed would still hold.

“Report on?” Tilghman asks.

“There is a British convoy. I am meeting General Greene.” Reed huffs. “No doubt you will see the letters or write responses yourselves later. Suffice it that I do not know when my return to headquarters may be or if at all. Is that satisfactory for your curiosities?”

“I would perhaps be interested in the seeming suddenness of your departure,” Hamilton says, his voice level. “I would imagine we should know of your leaving sooner than the day before.”

“Or the night of,” Fitzgerald retorts as he takes a bite of bread.

Reed frowns once more. “Because Fort Mifflin is in danger now and I am to be another set of eyes. Can you not attend to your own duties and bear less on mine?” Reed pushes back his chair and stalks from the table in far more of a snit than Laurens thinks warrants the simple curiosity of his fellow officers. 

Laurens sits back in his chair, agitating his shoulder, then folding his arms. “Well, has he tired of us so?”

“Am I to understand he is to join in the chase of a British convoy possibly leading to the Fort?” Meade asks Harrison.

“Do say he is not chosen as a spy of some kind now,” Tilghman asks Harrison, “I fear for the whole war then if that be the case.”

“That is not the case,” Harrison says.

“Praise,” Laurens mutters.

“But should he really not return?” Hamilton asks Harrison. “I know we may manage all duties without him, but it is still a gap to fill; or does his eventual return to Congress, as he says, mean some benefit to us? A better voice for our needs as he has sat here with us and seen the battles fought with, as he says, another pair of eyes?”

Harrison gathers up the papers left by General Washington and Reed toward himself then taps their edges into alignment on the table. “Colonel Reed was a volunteer in this office and the army as a whole; he is also elected to the Congress. I am glad of his aid in either quarter and, as a volunteer here, he does have leave to manage some of his own interests in this army.”

“That is not an answer,” Fitzgerald retorts.

Harrison smiles then stands. “I am aware.”

Laurens and Fitzgerald lock eyes with each other, both frowning. Hamilton bumps Laurens shoulder. Laurens flicks his eyes to him and Hamilton shakes his head once.

“Shall we clear this and reorder our room for work now?” Harrison asks. “Please, sirs?”

The men around the table stand, shifting chairs and plates, shoving the last pieces of bread and meat into their mouths. Fitzgerald retrieves one jug of coffee while Meade calls for the house servants to come clear the table.

“And a loss now of Reed?” Hamilton says faintly to Laurens.

Laurens makes a ‘humph’ noise. “Should I mourn?”

Hamilton’s lip quirks. “Who shall you chide then without Reed?”

“Perhaps you, Hamilton.”

Hamilton raises both eyebrows. “After I helped your shoulder so? And after you put such an effort into my gentlemanly education in dancing?” Laurens breathes in sharply through his nose making Hamilton grin wider. “And here I thought us good friends.”

“Then I shall not chide you,” Laurens says quietly.

Hamilton nods once. “Far better.”

Laurens wishes he could kiss Hamilton right here and, by the look on Hamilton’s face, he would very much agree with that.

 

The aides spend their day as usual at desk and table with paper in front of them. Many of the letters arriving with the courier do pertain to Fort Mifflin as anticipated. The fort still holds, though, as Tilghman expected, ammunition beings to run short and supplies are needed. Laurens wishes he could be at the fort now, gun and sword in hand as at Germantown. He feels himself inadequate when he knows men die under fire and he sits with pen and paper instead. Reed is rarely in the office with them, likely attending to his imminent departure, which does turn out to be planned for that day, after the afternoon dinner meal.

“He has not far to go,” Fitzgerald says, “what with the fighting and Congress all here in this corner of Pennsylvania.”

Come dinner, the entire family sit together at table. They have chicken and turkey, each dressed with a garnish of limes, which is more a military trick against scurvy than the usual dinner preparations might call for. Laurens has an odd liking for limes now he never cultivated prior. Glasses filled with wine and some mugs with cider sit before each man, a few gentlemen bearing both – Gibbs. Laurens hopes for some more fruit and roasted nuts at the end of the meal; surely if Reed is leaving he deserves an extra boon to his farewell table regardless of his character.

“No women guests to see Reed off,” Meade hisses to Tilghman seated next to him and across from Laurens and Hamilton.

“Shame,” Gibbs adds on Meade’s other side.

“And would you disparage the company of the family?” Laurens eyes them as he butters some bread. “You seem merry enough.”

“But for Reed,” Meade says, “ladies to send him off with laughter too.”

“Impossible,” Fitzgerald mutters quietly on Hamilton’s other side, furthest from Reed.

Laurens smiles and sees Hamilton knock Fitzgerald’s plate with his knife. Fitzgerald only makes a nonplussed face. Meade shakes his head at Fitzgerald saying something conspiratorially toward him, Tilghman leaning further away from Harrison on his other side toward Meade in an attempt to hear.

Laurens taps his foot against Hamilton’s under the table. He glances at Laurens. “And have you heard his laughter?” Laurens asks low, gesturing slightly toward Reed on Laurens’ other side.

“Not all men laugh.”

Laurens shakes his head. “I do not prefer those men.”

Hamilton smiles slowly. “I should hope not.”

Laurens grips his cutlery tighter as Hamilton gazes at him. Hamilton picks up his glass of wine and takes one sip. Then he presses the edge of the glass to his bottom lip. “And what sort of man do you prefer then Laurens?” He shifts the glass lower as Laurens controls his breath as best he can at a table with so many around them. Then Hamilton says, “As a companion that is.”

Laurens clears his throat once quietly. “I should certainly prefer a man able to laugh… though perhaps not to excess.”

“Ah, not the flippant fop you mean? A man instead of some sense and substance?”

“Yes.”

“And what else?”

“Hamilton...” Laurens says quietly, worried at this game now even as Fitzgerald leans across the table more to hiss something to Meade and Harrison speaks seriously with Reed and the General.

Hamilton, however, keeps his expression innocent and presses his thigh closer to Laurens’ under the table even as he sits up straighter. “What would a man, a friend, who appeals to you, Laurens, be like? What should he be want to speak of, only the fight now perhaps with you one so eager to do so? Or perhaps more of politics too?” Hamilton’s eyes slide to Laurens’ shoulder and back up again. “Would he be an educated man or the common working gent?”

“I should prefer a challenge,” Laurens says. “A man full of surprises.”

Hamilton grins wide and Laurens nearly slides his hand over Hamilton’s too close thigh right there at the table. Fortunately, General Washington unknowingly saves Laurens as he taps his glass with a fork and the room falls silent, attention drawn to His Excellency.

“Gentlemen.” General Washington holds up his glass. “A toast to Joseph Reed.”

The men raise their glasses and Reed visibly sits up straighter, his glass also in hand.

“It is has been an incalculable help to have Reed back with us once more in our office, dedicated to the cause, volunteering his time and talent. He is a man known for his knowledge and strong opinion which can ever change the outcomes of our fight.”

Harrison’s eyes widen slightly in something like alarm and seated just beside him, Laurens notices Reed’s fingers tighten on his glass. On Laurens’ other side, Hamilton shifts more toward the General as he speaks.

“Joseph Reed served us in years past and still he returns to lend his pen and mind and voice, despite reasons he may find not to.”

Reed’s eyes cast down to the table at that and Laurens know now there is something more.

“Reed rises above and helps us all to keep the fight alive against our enemy and ourselves. He expects no remuneration except the freedom of his countrymen, and, be it in this office or when he returns to Congress, we shall be grateful for his support.” General Washington raises his glass a touch higher. “To Joseph Reed.”

“To Reed,” Every man around the table intones, even Laurens, and they clink glasses. 

“Thank you, General,” Reed says as the glasses return to the table.

Laurens takes a long drink of his mug of cider then turns back to Hamilton. Hamilton locks eyes with him, a quizzical expression on his face. “Quite a toast,” he says.

“Yes.”

Hamilton breathes in once and puts his own glass down. “As purposeful as our own conversation just now before it.” 

Laurens nods, “Yes, I think so.”

 

When dinner concludes an hour and some time later, the aides and General Washington all gather to see Reed off. The sun has only an hour before it begins to set giving Reed and his servant several hours to ride.

“Safe journey,” Harrison says as Reed mounts his horse.

“Do write,” General Washington says to Reed with a smile.

Reed smiles back and nods, touching his hat. “Of course, General. I should be glad of it.”

Laurens finds oddly, now that Reed is leaving, he minds the man less. Perhaps it is the hope of soon absence. Reed nods at the rest of them en masse then shifts back ahead sharply in his saddle and trots off down the lane. General Washington turns around almost immediately and returns inside. Fitzgerald follows him, on duty for some dictation this evening.

Gibbs sighs once and shakes Tilghman’s shoulder. “And he did not even say farewell to you, Tilghman.”

“Me?” Tilghman looks aside at Gibbs. “Why should I merit his special interest? It is Meade who is the kind gentleman among us.”

“Oh now, Tench,” Meade says, “I wager you are just as much a gentleman as myself.”

“But perhaps less sweet that you,” Gibbs says clapping Meade on the cheek.

Meade makes a half-annoyed, half-charmed face. “One of us must.”

“Come then,” Harrison says, gesturing for Meade and Tilghman to precede him. “We have correspondence yet before the evening grows too dark.”

Laurens looks at Hamilton in the fading light. “And what of that toast then?”

Hamilton looks back at him. “It did feel odd. Such meanings I could not decipher and we know enough of his Excellency’s tact.”

“Oh, you should have seen them before,” Gibbs interrupts nearer Hamilton. “Far closer friends; Washington near begged Reed to return last year and Reed well...”

“Reed well what?” Laurens asks after a pause, knowing Gibbs would wish to be drawn out.

Gibbs make a face, curving around the pair of them so his back is to the house. “I am no gossip.”

“You?” Laurens says with the same tone of incredulity that Hamilton says, “No?”

Gibbs steps close to them once more. “I do not know all the particulars but Reed fell out with his Excellency last year during the New Jersey campaign.” He suddenly claps Laurens hard on the wrong shoulder as he says, “Ask Harrison.”

Laurens inhales sharply and grasps his shoulder as Gibbs twists away, clearly not realizing his error and still chuckling about whatever subterfuge lies with Reed.

Hamilton turns quickly to Laurens. “Good God, did he –”

“Yes, damn!” Laurens holds his shoulder, breathing sharply.

Hamilton pulls back the lapel of Laurens’ coat and pushes aside the edge of Laurens’ waistcoat. He glances up at Laurens. “You’re not bleeding.”

“The man would do well to remember who may have wounds,” Laurens hisses.

Hamilton lets go of Laurens’ clothing and sighs. “I think he tends to focus more on the General’s wellbeing over any others.”

Laurens purses lips. “It is his job.”

Hamilton cracks a smile, eyes still on Laurens’ shoulder. “Better yet?”

Laurens pulls his hand down, though his shoulder still burns. “Yes.”

Hamilton watches his face, a frown back on his own. “Perhaps you should have stayed with the surgeon longer. Two weeks on and –”

“It is healing,” Laurens interrupts. “You said now it does not bleed and with such an attack from Gibbs…”

“You may not be past the danger of infection still and –”

“I am well.” Laurens touches Hamilton’s cheek for a brief moment, his eyes coasting over the house behind Hamilton. “Believe my words.”

Hamilton covers Laurens hand on his cheek. “I believe your faith in your own words, if not in the truth of fact.”

Laurens pulls his hand down, intertwining his fingers with Hamilton’s “We should go in.” Then he turns around Hamilton and pulls them toward the house, feeling Hamilton’s fingertips rubbing over his own until they cross the threshold.

Once inside, hands apart, they return to the office, the table newly cleaned of food and instead messy with paper so quickly. Harrison sits with a ledger beside him, no Meade or Tilghman within.

“All alone?” Hamilton asks.

Harrison looks up. “Meade and Tilghman should return soon. I think they speak with the General.”

Hamilton strides into the room and sits close to Harrison, Laurens following, suspecting Hamilton’s aim.

“Gibbs mentioned a subject on which I should ask you,” Hamilton says.

Harrison sits up straighter. “I fear.”

“Yes,” Laurens says.

“No,” Hamilton counters, “It is merely an inquiry.”

Harrison breathes in slowly and Laurens believes Harrison suspects the line of questioning as well. “Yes?”

Hamilton tilts his head. “I am not asking you to betray a confidence if you should fear that.”

“Are you not?”

“No, but I merely wish to know of the relations between our General and Reed. I had thought them well but in the manner of his Excellency’s speech this evening and Reed’s quick departure it seems less so.”

“Reed is not a sentimental man.”

“And we are not aide–de–camp for our dim wits,” Laurens snaps. Harrison gives Laurens a sharp look, but Laurens holds his gaze. “It is not idle chat,” Laurens says anticipating Harrison’s disapproval. “It is concern.”

“Their...” Harrison seems to struggle for the correct word. “Their source of contention was due to a letter some time ago and some opinions of Reed’s.”

Hamilton cocks his head more. “What opinions?”

“I do not like to be drawn in like this,” Harrison grumbles. “It is not my business to say and not yours to ask.”

“It should be if we need to have concern of Reed’s loyalty,” Hamilton says, sweeping his hand casually over the papers as if to indicate their work. “You say ‘opinion’ and it could mean any manner of thing.”

Laurens stops himself quickly from smiling at Hamilton’s deft turn of the situation so Harrison now appears off the high ground. 

Harrison blows out a breath. “It was last year, before General Lee was captured and not of real concern now so I must insist, it is not a matter for discussion.”

“What has Charles Lee to do with it?’ Hamilton asks.

“Is it of Lee’s comments on General Washington and his supposedly inadequate leadership?” Laurens asks. Hamilton’s head whips around and Harrison looks at Laurens sharply, both with surprised expressions. Laurens tilts his chin up. “My father is a member of Congress.”

“Do you mean to say that Reed agreed with Lee over dislike in some manner of His Excellency’s command of the army?” Hamilton hisses, his voice lower so as not to carry across the hall to the parlor the General occupies.

Harrison’s jaw clenches in an obvious ‘yes.’ 

Laurens adds on, his whisper harsher now. “What, due to some losses, was it? Reed and Lee thinking they could do better?”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “Reed wrote of such opinions?”

Harrison frowns. “It is past…”

“But if Reed did write such why should the General have allowed his return?” Hamilton continues despite Harrison’s face. “Unless the slight was not so serious or our General so able to swallow pride?”

Harrison abruptly gathers up the letters and blank papers and ledger in front of him. “I shall assist the General or find some silent peace to work in his presence instead. You would both do well to consider that what is past should stay where it lies.”

The two of them watch Harrison leave then look at each other once more.

“Perhaps you should not have pushed,” Laurens says mildly.

“I believe I should have.”

“I feel myself still quite content to dislike the man.”

Hamilton makes a huffing noise. “Would that we could read what letters there must be.”

Laurens smirks. “And now you are a gossip.”

“Only in important matters.”

Laurens contemplates some of the reports and correspondence before them. Harrison may have a point and perhaps they should focus on their work at hand and not Reed’s past missteps. Laurens picks up a letter from the Marquis de Fleury addressed to Hamilton and slides it to him. 

Hamilton picks it up, the seal broken from this morning and taps it his on his palm. “I should still wish to read what Reed wrote.”

Laurens chuckles lightly, unable to resist the interest either. “And to know how the General learned of it.”

“And why should he return here if he disgraced himself?”

“Harrison did not say disgrace.”

“I say so.”

Laurens and Hamilton smile at each other. Laurens chuckles again. “Enough then, we need not torture Harrison into a confession he may regret and I can guard my curiosity.”

“Hmm.” Hamilton’s glances around the dining room turned temporary office then sighs. “I would not argue with you and certainly would not be a gossip.”

“Certainly not.”

“Ham! Laurens!”

Meade suddenly crashes into the chair across from them, Tilghman following with more grace. “Hello.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “Back to work?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Tilghman says. “A requisition for Fort Mifflin and Meade with a reply to General Putnam, but...”

“But...” Meade says, his voice lowering.

“But?” Hamilton asks.

“Go quickly,” Laurens says, “I fear you shall be called a gossip too if you linger.”

Meade holds up a finger. “Some occasions require such.”

Hamilton and Laurens glance at each other then back to the other pair. “Reed?”

They nod together. “Gibbs seemed keen to share and, though he could not tell us the contents, he mentioned a letter penned by Reed which the General accidentally read.”

“He read the letter?” Laurens says in surprise.

“Yes!” Meade says. “He thought it a report from General Lee to Reed on troops, as had been in the past.”

“You know of the letter?” Tilghman says with a sideways look.

“And the letter,” Meade says, “was not such, but a private letter between Reed and Lee that said something untoward in some respect in regards to General Washington.”

“Do you know what the letter said?” Tilghman asks.

“The point being,” Meade bulls over, “that whatever rude words within, it was clear of Reed’s agreement or at least a continuing of such correspondence in clear antagonism of some kind to His Excellency!”

Tilghman glances sidelong at Meade then back to them. “Reed, it appears, made a mess and, I there in the office at the time, had no idea of it.”

“You did not know then?” Hamilton asks quietly.

Tilghman shakes his head. “The General is not one to rage without just cause, you know.”

“Just cause is a manner of every man’s opinion,” Hamilton retorts.

“Oh, but now,” Meade says catching up to Tilghman’s earlier questions. “Just what do you two know of this business?”

Laurens and Hamilton glance at each other then back again. “Just as you said,” Laurens replies. 

Meade frowns. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

Tilghman crosses his arms. “I think you hold out.”

“We have questions enough ourselves,” Hamilton says, “but it is not our business, is it?”

“The General is our business and Reed we felt our man too,” Meade insists.

Tilghman cocks his head. “I think you wish to play the moral men when you have as much interest as we.”

Hamilton scoffs. “Tench, really.”

Tilghman does not appear impressed. “Yes, Ham, really.”

“You heard the General’s speech this evening, his feelings are cooler than we thought toward Reed,” Laurens says then admits with some reluctance, “but it did sound something like forgiveness too.” Hamilton gives Laurens a surprised look. Laurens shakes his head. “I do not say my actions would be the same even from the little we know of the situation.”

“But I wish to know more of the situation,” Meade insists.

“Yet you should not and be satisfied as you have now.” The four men whip around to Harrison standing in the doorway of the dining room, frowning. He glares at the now silent men. “You are aides–de–camp, not school boys and I know you to be better men.”

“Harrison,” Meade says quietly, “we meant little harm and more concern.”

Harrison still frowns. “Stop. If Reed and the General could work together these months then clearly the matter is settled. Now if you would finish what work you have begun today then perhaps I might find you less like children!”

Laurens sighs and picks up a quill. “You have chastised us quite enough, mother.”

Harrison’s frown lessens. “Simply recall that a man need not be one’s favorite or have the same opinions for a man to be able to work alongside them.” He nods once then steps back and closes the door on them, likely in fear they should start again and the General hear this time.

The four men in the room look at each other then all pick up paper and ink to return to work, only a quick chuckle from Meade which diffuses the tension. Laurens thinks Reed quite deserves their investigation into his character, no matter what the letter should have said.

 

After a brief supper of wine and fruits, Laurens leaves the rest of the family downstairs and climbs back up toward the attic. His shoulder aches more now after so long up and about and writing and raising his glass for toasts. Still, He thinks it hurts less than the day before, even with Gibbs’ accidental attack. Laurens closes the attic door behind himself then pulls at his neck cloth. Once loose, he tugs it free and drops it on his cot. He wonders if he should write to his father but that would likely make his shoulder no better. Laurens rubs a hand over the wound, wishing for a way to heal faster.

Then he hears the sounds of footsteps and the attic door opens revealing Hamilton. “Hello.” Hamilton closes the door behind him, stepping around a hat fallen on the floor.

Laurens smiles, the room warmer now and his shoulder suddenly less a distraction with Hamilton walking toward him. “Hello.”

“Meade and Tilghman have stuck to Harrison’s sides. I fear he may give them a sharper tongue lashing than even before.”

Laurens shakes his head. “They are of an age and rank, he cannot truly rebuke them.”

“Oh, Harrison is of an age all his own.” Hamilton stands close and reaches out tentatively to touch the bare skin of Laurens’ neck. “Does your shoulder hurt still?”

Laurens thinks to say no but finds himself saying, “Yes.”

Hamilton runs his fingers over Laurens’ skin, slipping under his shirt to the edge of the bandage beneath. He looks up at Laurens, “at least the wound was not worse. You could still lie in a sick bed as Lafayette.”

“But he shall recover soon.”

“As will you.”

Laurens breathes out and puts his hand up to Hamilton’s cheek, rubbing his thumb along Hamilton’s jaw. “It seems years since we have had any span alone.”

“But only weeks in truth,” Hamilton finishes.

Laurens chuckles. “Yes, fighting and a war.”

“And injury.”

“And that.”

“But not just now.” Hamilton’s hands travel down the path of Laurens’ skin, pushing aside hooks on Laurens’ shirt.

Laurens eyes drift down to Hamilton’s lips. “No.”

“Then let us not waste this time.”

Hamilton leans up and kisses Laurens’ lips, his hand flat against the skin of Laurens’ chest while his other hand reaches up to grip the back of Laurens’ neck, ensuring he bends down into the kiss. Laurens slides his arm around Hamilton’s waist with his other still on Hamilton’s jaw as Hamilton kisses him hard, needy, just as Laurens feels. Hamilton captures Laurens’ lower lip, sucks and bites for a moment, makes Laurens gasp into the kiss before Hamilton kisses him full on again, his fingers moving lower on Laurens’ chest scratching against short hairs. Laurens wishes they had less clothes on, more time, a lock on the door.

“John,” Hamilton whispers over his lips.

Laurens pulls back from Hamilton’s lips and kisses along Hamilton’s jaw, bites at his ear and kisses his pulse point. He hears Hamilton moan once, pressing closer so Laurens realizes how close they both are to a mistake.

He pulls his head back and looks at Hamilton’s eyes, dark in the lacking light, only realizing now he never lit a candle.

“We have to stop,” Laurens says

“Yes.” Hamilton kisses Laurens’ lips again.

Laurens sighs and kisses him back. “We have to.”

Hamilton turns his face into Laurens’ cheek and nods. “I know.”

Laurens kisses Hamilton’s eyelids, tries not to think about the many cots with blankets and pillows all around them.

“And you are injured,” Hamilton says, pulling his head back, though his hands stay where they are on Laurens’ chest and neck. “I would not wish to be cause of more.”

Laurens thinks about Hamilton’s teeth on his shoulder and he has to take one step backward, pulling Hamilton, still in his arms, a step with him. “I... oh, you...”

Hamilton smiles, moves closer so they are flush together. “I can still kiss you.”

Laurens smiles as Hamilton presses kisses to his lips once more. “Unless it leads to something else.”

“Ah, John,” Hamilton’s one hand travels’ down Laurens’ side to touch Laurens’ hip. “What could that be?”

Laurens laughs, Hamilton bites his lip, his kisses slow and firm, his tongue welcome and easy against Laurens’, so Laurens’ head spins and he forgets what he might have been protesting about. 

“Anything,” he murmurs instead over Hamilton’s’ lips, his hands tight now on the small of Hamilton’s back. “Anything... my dear.”

Then the footsteps on the twisting stairs register in Laurens’ ear nearer the door. They both stop, eyes open and looking at each other. Laurens thinks Hamilton is more beautiful each time Laurens holds him like this. 

Hamilton presses one kiss to Laurens lips then takes a step backward just before the door clacks and opens.

“I would like to know,” Meade says as Hamilton puts a discreet hand over his reddened lips and turns toward Meade, “how you may have convinced Harrison to tell you more of this affair.”

Tilghman follows behind Meade, two lit candles in hand. “He is going to tell us nothing of any consequence little or great now, Kidder.”

Meade sighs. “I cannot be curious?”

“Not that much.” Tilghman glances at Laurens and Hamilton then to the dark room. “Did you forget a candle?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says, his voice more level than Laurens thinks his own would be. “I had hoped for a tinder box up here.”

“You should need a candle first,” Meade says as he takes one candle from Tilghman to place in the window nearest the door and closer to Laurens’ bed.

“And what did you four learn without me to make Harrison seem so out of sorts?” Fitzgerald says as he enters the attic, shutting the door after him. “Do I not deserve the truth of Reed’s malice as well?”

“Oh now,” Meade proclaims walking toward his cot, “Fitzgerald calls it malice, do you not see? We all must know the same of Reed.”

“What did we say before?” Hamilton proclaims. “If the General can forgive...”

“Oh, dash forgiveness,” Fitzgerald says shrugging out of his coat. “I want to know more reason why Laurens and I may hate the man.”

“Did I ever say ‘hate?’” Laurens says as he finally finds his voice and sits down on his cot.

Fitzgerald shoots him a look. “Reed is an ass.”

“Here here,” Tilghman says as Meade laughs.

“And farewell to him!” Fitzgerald says with a clap of his hands.

The three men begin to remove boots and cravats, jockeying for rights to the washbasin in the far window. Hamilton turns back around, taking two steps closer to Laurens’ cot.

He glances over Laurens’ face, eyes lingering on Laurens’ lips. “Do you need help?” He cocks his head. “With your coat?”

“I think it would be unwise for you to touch me now,” Laurens says quietly, staring up at Hamilton.

Hamilton smiles slow, like a cat caught a mouse, or a man caught another with his fiery hair and fine words and lush lips and sky blue eyes.

“Then do be careful,” Hamilton says. “I want your wound healed soon and your whole self back to health and... strength.”

Laurens breathes in deeply and nods, Hamilton still grinning – Hamilton must know how beautiful he is and how dearly Laurens would hold him all night if he could right now. Then Laurens breathes out again as Hamilton turns away, back to his shared cot with Tilghman. Laurens watches him walk, does not think about Reed and his idiocy or the pain in his shoulder from a battle lost; he thinks about kisses and hands on him and Hamilton smiling over his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> This series is in the process of becoming a book, to keep up with the progress check out the book website [Duty and Inclination](https://www.dutyandinclination.com/) and my author [facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/DupontWrites).


End file.
